


The Vessel

by Simara



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Consent to save the World?, Magic Made Them Do It, Multi, come for the premise stay for very soft JonMartin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-24 08:27:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20355433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Simara/pseuds/Simara
Summary: "Martin didn't have a better suggestion and really, 'platonic fear orgy' wasn't even the strangest thing Peter had said to him that week."Or: Peter's plan to stop the Extinction involves a lot more hugging than Martin had expected and everyone is invited.





	The Vessel

Martin stared at Peter, waiting for the punch-line. After a long stretch of quiet – for all his mindless chatter Peter could hold an uncomfortable silence for an uncanny amount of time – he took the bait and asked, deadpan:

“You mean – you mean an orgy?” Peter had the audacity to wink at him.

“Well, it’s not necessarily a sex thing but yeah, in a way, it’s an orgy. A fear orgy. A platonic fear orgy.”

“And all the other Powers…?”

“Agreed to send an avatar each after I’ve spent almost a year haggling them about it, yes. This is a first, mind you. Even if we fail and all die horribly, it’ll still be a historic event.”

“What a comfort.”

“Cheer up Martin, you’ll be the special guest after all! What is a ritual of unity without a vessel?” Peter still sounded like Martin was supposed to take pride in it. To Martin, it seemed pretty obvious that he had gotten the short end of the stick. He crossed his arms, trying to hide his discomfort.

“I can’t believe you managed to talk that many people into this.”

“You might argue that most of them are barely people anymore but yes, it was quite the challenge. It took no small amount of favours and a helping hand from the Mother of Puppets, of course, but you can be assured that _all_ the Powers have stakes in interrupting the Extinction’s ritual. They might complain but they’ll do their part.” A sigh escaped Martin’s chest. He felt incredibly small.

“I suppose you’re right… Oh. Oh!” Martin’s head shot upwards, a faint blush on his cheeks. “Wait you said all the Powers – does Jon know?” This shouldn’t have been what caught him off-guard about this horrendous plan but somehow the prospect shook him. Peter just smirked his insufferable little smirk at him.

“He’ll be there, don’t you worry.”

“Does he _know_, Peter?”

“I told him that you’ll be there and that it’s his best shot at stopping the Extinction. If he’s any good at being the Archivist, he’ll figure the rest out himself.” Martin inhaled sharply.

“Okay. So you, me, Jon and… who else, exactly?” He wanted desperately to regain at least a little control over this suicide-mission of a counter-ritual but apparently there were no small mercies for him today

“Whomever they deem fit. Really, Martin, I barely managed to make them agree at all, I didn’t get to pick and choose.”

“And you promise it’s not, you know, an _actual_ orgy?”

“I can’t predict how it’ll go but there doesn’t need to be any sex, no. Just plain old physical intimacy.” Peter gave a little theatrical shudder. “That won’t be a problem though, right?”

Martin’s shoulders sank but he didn’t find the will to argue. He didn't have a better suggestion and really, 'platonic fear orgy' wasn't even the strangest thing Peter had said to him that week.

They met in an empty warehouse which Peter had rented for just that occasion. When asked about it he just shrugged and said he’d chug it up to travelling expenses and Martin was too nervous to dwell on technicalities. There was an intricate design on the floor, a fourteen pointed star adorned with neat little symbols. Peter took his place and gestured for Martin to stand in the centre. It felt strange to position himself right there, knowing that he would soon be surrounded by monsters. If they actually came, that is. He glanced at Peter, nervously.

“They’ll be here”, Peter assured him. Almost as if on cue, there was a buzzing in the air and a faint whiff of ozone. Within the blink of an eye, a tall, lanky woman stood where empty air used to be. Peter nodded his head towards her.

“Hello, Harriet.” She acknowledged him with a smile and took her place to represent the Fairchilds in this endeavour. Her arrival seemed to set things in motion somehow: As soon as she took her stand, a shadow began to twist and a man robed in darkness joined them wordlessly. His features were half-hidden underneath his cloak but there was no doubt about whom he was aligned with. Next came a quiver of the earth as a woman emerged from the Buried. Martin recognized her with a shudder. He had seen her picture years ago when the other’s had investigated the disappearance of Alena Sanderson in Lost Johns’ Cave. She shot a dismissive look at Harriet Fairchild as she took her place, and Martin was once again very aware of the fact that most of these people hated each other on an absurdly existential level. The whole affair seemed less and less like a good idea but there was no stopping it now. Before he could quite calm himself, the large doors of the warehouse swung open and a couple of figures entered. One of them, a young Asian woman – Jude Perry, Martin realized, as he caught sight of her tattoo – looked as displeased as Martin felt self-aware. She seemed half in mind to burn the whole building down around them. After her came a policeman, swagger in his steps and a predatory glint in his eyes. Martin couldn’t help but be thankful that Peter hadn’t asked Daisy to join in. Or maybe he had and she’d had the good sense to refuse. Next to the Hunt entered a man whose skin had an ill shine to it. He smiled a thin little smile and Martin’s stomach turned.

He lost track of them, at that point. Some seemed to appear out of thin air, others used the door like normal people. Martin could feel the air in the room grow thicker with each avatar joining their circle. Somewhere in the far distance he could sense something else, something plastic, something toxic. Peter’s prediction’s had been right, then. The Extinction’s ritual would take place tonight and this mad attempt at a counter ritual was all they had left to defend themselves. And then there was Jon. Martin hadn’t seen him enter but there he was, seemingly a little disorientated as he took in the sight of the assembled Powers. Martin felt a strange draw and took a step forward. Jon didn’t seem to notice him so he touched the Archivists arm lightly. Jon’s head shot up and their eyes locked. Martin could hear his own name, a mere whisper, and then Jon _knew_. Martin could tell by the way his eyes widened but he didn’t dare to let go of Jon’s arm. He had waited so long for this opportunity, to run his hand across Jon’s skin, to be touched, held, comforted… A strange sort of dizziness came over him as Jon reached up and touched his cheek. He could feel himself sway, lean closer, enraptured by the gesture.

“I’m sorry. I should have told you.”

“It’s alright, Martin. It’s worth a try.” Jon brought his other hand up as well, cradling Martin’s face as he rested their foreheads together. “I missed you”, he admitted, a strangled whisper. “I needed you.”

“I’m sorry”, Martin repeated holding on to Jon’s forearms for dear life, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay”, Jon said, a bitter smile in his voice. “It’s not your fault. I should thank you, really. This is quite the project you’ve taken up.” Martin’s heart fluttered wildly and his head hurt a little, flooded by a sense of _knowledge_ that was almost intrusive. He recognized more of the other avatars now, could taste their names on his lips: Oliver Banks, Annabelle Cane… he blinked rapidly but didn’t let go of the Archivist. He felt so close to Jon, so comfortable and yet he felt watched, studied, dissected. It had been all too easy to forget the others as he’d listened to Jon’s soft whispers but it all came crashing back to him now. He shuddered but didn’t withdraw, pressing his eyes closed. They were watching him, he knew that they were watching him and he was sure that they were judging him for how much he loved this stubborn man. Then there was a hand on his shoulder and hot breath on his neck and the feeling of overwhelming scrutiny faded into a shudder of loneliness. His breathing hitched as Peter kissed his neck, stubble just this side of uncomfortable. Everything seemed hopeless and cold for a horrifying second and Martin felt like an empty husk, unloved, ignored, abandoned. The cold was almost unbearable.

“There”, he heard Peter say, “Good boy.” Martin felt pinned between them, unsure if he wanted to press closer to Peter or move further away from him. He settled for letting his head sink backwards with something close to a moan. This lessened his contact with Jon though, so he pulled him along, hugging him close. That position was a lot more bearable but the cold was still eating at his core. It was a welcome surprise when he felt a small hand slip underneath his shirt, pressing hotly against his chest.

“Easy”, he heard her say. “You don’t want to break him yet, boys.” The heat was all consuming, scorching his skin and his thoughts alike. He felt the beauty of destruction, the rush of soaring pain. A lofty chuckle ripped him out of his trance and he opened his eyes with a pained expression. Harriet Fairchild had pressed close, kissing Jude Perry with enraging calmness. Martin felt strangely neglected, despite the fact that he was still in Jonathan’s arms with Peter nuzzling at his throat. He wanted more, needed more and so he didn’t protest when Jude grabbed him by the hair, gave a sharp tug, and wrapped her burning hot body around him in a scorching hug. It hurt, but Martin caught himself worrying more about Jon’s safety than his own. Harriet huffed approvingly as she leaned down and brushed her fingers across Martin’s cheek, sending electric jolts through his body. He felt like he was falling, caught in the endless, overwhelming Vast. He gasped for air, reached out to steady himself against the vertigo and someone – Jon – grabbed his arm in support. It was hard to focus on him through the haze of power and fear but Martin could still make out his worried expression. He forced a smile, tried to signal that it was alright, really, that they could do this, together. Before he could put it into words, however, the ill looking man stepped up and tugged at Martin’s half open shirt to expose his shoulder. Martin could see a possessive glint in Jon’s eyes and then he could feel the man’s teeth burrow into his bare flesh, filling him with sickness. Panic surged though him as he felt something wiggle and twist underneath his skin. He wanted to claw at himself, could hear a thousand hums and buzzing sounds and it was too much, too much and then… Annabelle Cane clicked her tongue and broke the spell, caressing the wound with fingers that felt like a thousand spiders. It was oddly comforting how they hurried across his chest, knitting the broken flesh back together. Her touch brought calmness and comfort, the knowledge that someone else was making all the hard choices, keeping him safe and sound. A sigh escaped him at Annabelle’s caress and then he could feel the brush of Harriet Fairchild’s lips against his collarbone. His knees gave way and hadn’t it been for Jon’s and Peter’s helping hands, he would have collapsed like a marionette with all its strings cut short. They lowered him to the ground, resting his head in Jon’s lap. There was concern in Jon’s eyes but the flush of his cheeks betrayed him. He could feel it too, Martin realized, they could all feel it, the rush of their power’s bleeding together, feeding one another, fuelling each other like candles drowned in gasoline. Jon was stroking his hair, murmuring reassuringly, as Alena Sanderson straddled him, burying him under her weight. She smothered him with a kiss. He hadn’t kissed a girl since 8th grade but he had barely time to focus on that because with it came a wave of claustrophobia, more powerful than any he’d ever suffered through. He could feel Jon’s grip in his hair tighten but it failed to reassure him. Any attempts at pushing Alena off were fruitless, only serving to heighten his panic. His pulse was beating fast enough to be painful and his lungs were burning from lack of air when finally, finally, Jude Perry shoved Alena off, grabbed her jaw and stole a kiss for herself, visibly delighting in the horrific sensations it brought. Martin struggled for air as he felt a shadow fall over him. He curled up on himself, burying his face in Jon’s lap, that delightful source of calm and comfort which he’d longed for all those years. He felt dizzy and disorientated and tired. It took Jon’s steady murmur to remind him of the task at head.

“It’s working”, Jon whispered as he caressed the back of Martin’s head. His voice sounded both resigned and intrigued and it occurred to Martin that the Ceaseless Watcher must be loving this, all the new information to collect and categorize… too bad that Jon was still struggling against it, unable to divorce his worry for Martin from his own curiosity. The shadow brushed against Martin’s bared skin and he wanted to open his eyes to see who had joined them but he realized with a jolt that the world had turned Pitch Black around him. He could still feel hands caressing him, could hear laboured breaths and low chuckles and somewhere close by the noise of someone kissing and clothes being shifted, discarded. The Dark should have frightened him but it was hard to focus with so many fears whirling around him, embracing, tugging, kissing, biting. The darkness made all of these sensations even more jarring. He could make out the brush of Jon’s fingers against his jaw, a whiff of Peter’s aftershave and the sound of distant thunder.

“Isn’t he beautiful like this?” Peter’s voice, teasing yet gentle. A huff from Jon’s general direction. “You should kiss him.” Peter again, smug. “There’s plenty here who will if you won’t.” The next sound was almost a growl and he could feel the bodies around him shift. There was hesitation in the air as the darkness fell away and he stared directly into Jonathan’s eyes, dazed from the ritual. Martin reached up, cupping Jon’s cheek with a weak smile.

“Don’t let him tease you”, he whispered, adding with a hint of embarrassment: “I’m glad you’re here.” Jon’s eyes had that possessive glare again but it soon softened into something less predatory.

“I will kiss you”, he promised earnestly, short-circuiting Martin’s brain. “After we’ve stopped the Extinction.” Jon leaned even closer, adding: “And then you’ll tell Peter Lukas to shove his smugness up his arse and come back to work with me.” Martin could barely hear Peter’s laugh through the ringing in his ears but he could see how Peter snaked an arm around Jon’s waist, tugging him gently away from Martin.

“We’ll see about that, Archivist, but for now…” he didn’t go so far as to kiss Jon, but his lips stopped only millimetres away from his skin. “…there are still a few guests who want a go.” Jon’s body tensed for a moment but then he went slack against Peter’s chest, shuddering quietly. He almost seemed to relax under Peter’s strong hands, limp under waves of loneliness and longing and the _knowledge_ of how it all came together. The air was thick and everyone was entangled in one way or another. Someone pressed close to Martin from behind and he could feel adrenaline rush into his head, accompanied by the sound of drums in the distance. He was filled with images of battlefields and mutilation, bursting with a berserker’s rage and ready to loose himself in bloody ecstasy. A low growl made him snap out of it as another pair of hands joined the first, groping him and infusing him with animalistic fury. He wanted to bite down on something, to devour, and so he sunk his teeth in the policeman’s neck, earning an aroused groan. They worked beautifully together, these two bloodthirsty Powers, filling him with strength and want and hunger. Their avatars moved against him and it hurt in all the right places. Martin was both hunter and prey as they pushed and pulled him this way and that. He had no coherent thought left, only fear and arousal and the promise of power.

There were soft little moans in the distance and Martin couldn’t quite see were they came from but Jude Perry and Harriet Fairchild were conspicuously missing from his immediate field of view. As if by chance – but really, what is chance to the Mother of Puppets – his eyes locked with Jon’s, who had by now freed himself from Peter’s advances only to enter into a strange little dance with someone in a hoodie. There was no judgement in Jon’s eyes, just the same, endless curiosity and an insatiable hunger for knowledge. Meanwhile, Oliver Banks had straddled a shirtless Peter Lukas, working him through his pants. There was a cruel little smile as Oliver caught Martin’s eye. He abandoned Peter – who soon after found himself drawn into some lap or another – without a second thought and got up to close the remaining distance. He shot dismissive glances at the Hunt and the Slaughter who were still clinging to Martin. Then he smiled again, a condescending little smirk and he grabbed Martin by the neck, positively stealing him away from the other avatars.

“They’re calling it the_ petit mort_ for a reason, you know?” His kiss was surprisingly gentle and Martin barely noticed how Bank’s hand slipped between his legs. He gave a little yelp, mostly muffled by their kiss, as Banks deliberately brushed against him. His knees threatened to buckle again as Death made him see stars. He remembered all those moments he had feared for someone’s live, remembered Tim’s death and Sasha’s fate and those dreadful months were he’d thought Jon would never wake up. He felt the inevitability of it pressing down on him and he all but stumbled back into the arms of Annabelle Cane who smiled at him wistfully. It was only a brief respite though because her calming caress didn’t change the fact that reality was warping around them, quivering in anticipation. A collective shudder came over them. The Extinction's ritual must have been in full swing by now but the power crackling through the surrounding air made it very clear that theirs was a stronger hold on reality. Martin distantly remembered that they weren’t done yet, that they had to finish the ritual if they wanted to keep the upper hand. He heard Jon make a distressed sound and tried to focus on him, realizing with a sudden terror that Jon had fallen into the Stranger’s arms. The avatar selected by the Stranger had kept their face hidden for the longest time but their hoodie had fallen back by now and Martin felt a surge of sickness in his stomach. This wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair and it certainly wasn’t Tim but there he stood grinning at Jon with glassy eyes.

“No hard feelings”, said Not-Quite-Tim and nipped at Jon’s earlobe, causing a muffled squeal. “We’ll still get to skin you one day, just you see…” Martin forced himself between them, half out of concern for Jon’s safety and half driven by the ritual's pull. He breathed in the formaldehyde odour and buried his face in the crook of the Stranger’s neck. He could almost pretend that this was really Tim and that everything was alright but the thing chuckled and grabbed Martin around the waist, stirring him into a slow waltz. Martin almost fell over his own feet but they managed to pick up a rhythm – no small thanks to Annabelle Cane, no doubt, who regarded him with silent amusement, pulling his strings. He wanted to say something, anything, apologize, beg, but the ritual had its hold on him and all he could do was be swayed by a fear of the uncanny creature in his arms, this stranger who looked so much like Tim, who was not quite a person and yet so painfully similar to one. There was an odd twist inside of him as the Stranger made him spin and twirl before finally letting go, shoving him towards another familiar figure. Helen – Michael – both or neither and a million others, he wasn’t sure. Their faces twisted in and out of reality, distorted beyond recognition. The Distortion wore people like others wore socks and it was repulsive, yes, but when they whispered their lies into his ears, impossibly long fingers on his bare skin, he couldn’t help but feel a rush of excitement. He could have listened to their twisted words for hours but something, some_one,_ was reaching inside of him now, pulling gently, and his whole body exploded in pain. The Distortion watched with crooked head as the Flesh sank inside Martin without breaking his skin, forced itself closer than humanly possible. It felt intimate and painful and wrong. His useless body was nothing but meat and this person could take him apart and consume him if that was what he saw fit. Like a lamb to the slaughter he swayed but couldn’t bring himself to flee, frozen in place by silent terror and an impossible satisfaction. He could hear a sound of protest from somewhere far off and a familiar chuckle, and then Peter was kissing his knuckles telling him how well he was doing, how proud he was, and an almost embarrassing rush of excitement shot through Martin. The Flesh retreated carefully, slowly, but didn’t quite leave him. Rather, it joined a couple of other Avatars who had snuggled close in order to run their hands across Martin’s body, hungry for his fear, desperate for it. Jon managed to push through anyway. He was missing the top button of his shirt but seemed otherwise unharmed and Martin’s eyes lit up as his Archivist pulled him into a hug. The powers were all around them, touching, feeding, but it didn’t matter anymore, because Jon was holding him, whispering apologetically. It should have felt claustrophobic, really, but Martin was so wrung out that he barely felt a twinge of discomfort. He was afraid, terribly, terribly afraid, naturally, but he was also painfully hard and pressed close to the man he loved. He could hear Peter groan nearby, heard Oliver Banks chuckle and he didn’t need to open his eyes to _know_ what they were doing. Jon hummed against his neck. The feeling of _knowing_ intensified to an inhuman degree and with a sudden burst of self-awareness Martin realized that Elias must be watching the whole thing. It should have terrified him, really, but it seemed so absurd all of a sudden and he was getting so very, very tired of being afraid. A giggle began to trickle from his throat and soon he was laughing in ecstasy as the fourteen powers pulsed through him, marking their claim on this world, pushing the Extinction hard enough to throw their ritual off balance. It all ended too suddenly. There was a rush of cold air and a whiff of burned plastic and then everything was normal again. His body all but collapsed against Jon’s and he only vaguely noticed how Jon began to untangle them from the mass of limbs around them.

“Are you okay? Martin? Oh god – Say something, please”, he wanted to laugh, tell Jon that his worry was sweet but unnecessary, wanted to remind him that they had just saved the world – again. Said world was spinning, though, and he felt horribly light-headed. All he could mutter was an exhausted:

“S’fine Jon.”

“Come on, you need to sit down.” Martin found himself on the floor, leaning against Jon like he’d always been meant to be right there. He could hear more than see that many of the other’s were still at it, high on victory and their metaphysical feast. They’d be back at each other’s throat this time tomorrow but Martin couldn’t bring himself to care. He looked up at Jon, fondness in his eyes and _knew_ that he could safely rest there till the morrow.

**Author's Note:**

> I blame this on Ottermouse who is a shameless enabler.  
Also please validate me I started writing this as a joke but began taking it way too serious about three words in.
> 
> I'm @simaraknows on tumblr, feel free to yell at me in the comments.


End file.
